


You Would Do The Same

by aewrose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is insecure, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Delirium, Fever, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aewrose/pseuds/aewrose
Summary: Crowley is missing for a while, which didn't used to bother Aziraphale--but post Armageddon't, things are a little different.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 220
Collections: My faves - Good Omens Whump





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale was not worried. At all. Nope.

He _always_ laid awake at night. He _chose_ not to sleep. Usually he read books, instead of laying there in pajamas under the covers worry—no, _thinking_ —about the fact that he hadn’t seen or heard from his partner in more than a week. Frankly, it was not exceptionally out of character. Crowley often disappeared, sometimes for weeks at a time—not to mention the fact that he _slept_ through most of the 19th century.

Everything was _fine._ Totally fine, and positively average, and Aziraphale was completely unconcerned about the whole thing.

 _Except for the fact that he missed your weekly reservation at the Ritz,_ said the little voice in his head.

_Except for the fact that he missed your usual breakfast at your favorite cafe._

_Except for the fact that he hasn’t returned any of your calls._

He sighed, exhaling shakily. “Calm down, Aziraphale. He is probably off gallivanting somewhere, causing plenty of mischief, and you _know_ it,” he said out loud, to no one in particular. The bookshop was empty, as it should be—it was nearly four in the morning. He decided to try, just this one time, to sleep—in an effort to alleviate his growing anxiety. Drawing the covers up around his ears, turning onto his side, allowing his eyelids to gently slide shut.

 _“We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even_ like _you!”_

_Crowley scowled, turned on his heel and began walking away._

_Aziraphale watched him walk away for a moment, then decided to speak. To say “I’m sorry,” or “I didn’t mean it,” or “I love you.”_

_Nothing happened._

_No words came out._

_He was choking, burning. The bandstand was engulfed in hellfire, and then it was the bookshop. He was running, desperately seeking Crowley inside. Crying out his name. He was in front of him, flaming, burning, face stoic, but eyes angry. He grabbed a pitcher of water, suddenly right under his hand, and splashed it on the demon in hope of putting out the flames. The bookshop was gone, Crowley was in the bathtub, in Hell, and he was screaming. Aziraphale was pouring the water over him._

_Water._

_Holy water._

_—_

Aziraphale awoke with a start, gasping. His cheeks were wet with tears. He was always plagued with nightmares, and they were worse when he was worried. More vivid, more violent. More hurtful.

More real.

The first light of dawn came through the window. The angel put his head in his hands. The blanket, comforting and warm when he went to bed—a gift from Crowley, in an effort to get him to sleep—lay crumpled on the ground.

 _You have to go,_ said the voice in his head. _Go. Just to check. Just to make sure._

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered. “It’s such an invasion of privacy, to walk right in. He’s not a _child,_ after all. He can have his own life.”

_He would do the same for you._

“Oh, good Lord.” He sniffed, wiping his eyes with a tartan sleeve. He allowed himself a small chuckle, smiling despite another tear paving its way down his cheek. “I know.”

He slid out of bed, bare pink feet touching the hardwood floor, and walked over to his phone. First, the phone in Crowley’s flat.

Three rings, then the familiar voice. _“You know what to do. Do it with style!”_

“H-hello, my dear. Are you alright? I, er, I would have _appreciated_ a _call,_ by now, um—well, at any rate, I have to admit I’m becoming _quite_ concerned, so _please,_ call me back, or I shall be _forced_ to-to come and check on you—well, I-I’ll try your, um, your other phone, first. Mind how you go.”

_Click._

He sighed.

_His answering device must be full to bursting, with all your messages._

_He probably thinks you’re too—what was that word? Clingy. Can’t you do anything on your own?_

His hands had dialed the number so many times, he could do it even with vision blurred through tears.

Three rings. Another voice, also familiar. The friendly, somewhat _mechanical_ woman’s voice. The beep.

“Hello, Crowley, um, I, well, _please_ let me know you’re alright. I’m, er, starting to get rather _upset._ Please, wherever you are, be safe. I’m coming over to…check on…your plants. See you soon, I hope.”

_Click._

—

Aziraphale stood in front of the door to Crowley’s flat, nervously straightening his bowtie.

_Why are you so upset? You’ve been here plenty of times._

He shook his head and knocked on the door.

_Do you want it to open or not? Which are you hoping for?_

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He knocked again. “Crowley? Are you in there?” A beat of silence. The angel screwed his eyes shut, snapped his fingers, and opened the now unlocked door.

He walked in cautiously. The minimal flat was silent.

“Crowley?” His voice echoed off the concrete walls.

_Why is your voice shaking? Coward._

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Crowley, I’m coming in.” His shoes clicked on the bare floor.

The plants were starting to yellow, their soil bone dry. His shoe touched something laying on the floor. It was the spray bottle, half full. He picked it up and started watering the plants.

_What are you doing?_

He gently touched the leaves of the poor abused houseplants, ignoring the voice in his head.

_He didn’t leave willingly._

He didn’t. Aziraphale knew it. When Crowley intended to leave for a long period of time, he always worked a demonic miracle to keep them moist and healthy. It _was_ possible, he supposed, that Crowley did it intentionally to weed out—pun not intended—the unworthy plants.

_What if the flat’s not safe? You aren’t in fighting shape._

“Crowley?” He gripped the spray bottle. If it came down to it, he would bless the water. Rounding the corner into the den, everything still seemed normal. Well, as “normal” as Crowley’s flat without Crowley in it could be.

_It’s crooked._

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale muttered. He walked by the throne, straightening it. That didn’t mean anything. He called out the demon’s name once again, to no response.

_He never leaves anything out of place. He’s not like you. This isn’t right._

He clutched the spray bottle harder, shaking. There was a…feeling, in the flat. A bad feeling. The “I don’t like this place, it’s spooky” feeling.

_It shouldn’t be. It’s Crowley’s. Everything in here exudes him, smells like him. Feels like him. Reminds you of him._

He walked past the throne, the table. Past the opening to Crowley’s bedroom, the feet peeking out from beside the bed, leaving scattered trails of dried blood.

_Wait._

He backed up, peering down the…well, the “sights” of the spray bottle. Or where they would be, if it wasn’t… a spray bottle. He turned into the bedroom, the black satin sheets uncharacteristically rumpled. Crowley _did_ sleep here, but was so particular about the way the flat looked, never left the bed unmade. The sheets were pulled down toward one side of the bed, near the bare feet, bruised and bloodied.

“Crowley?”

The feet twitched, pulling away from Aziraphale, seemingly in a reaction to the voice; toes curling in pain. The angel heard a low groan. His inner voice erupted in a cacophony of speech, his anxious mind racing. He dropped the spray bottle, letting it hit the ground with a _crack._

“Crowley, how _dare_ you! I was just worried _sick—_ “ Aziraphale gasped as his hand covered his mouth. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. His inner voice was silent. 

His partner lay on his stomach on the ground next to the bed. His hand had grasped a fistful of the satin sheet, as if he had attempted to crawl up when he had lost consciousness. His wavy shoulder-length red hair—usually so _impeccably_ tousled—was matted in a nest of coagulated blood on the back of his head. His bare back was bruised, skin in shreds, long cuts swollen and inflamed. He moaned and coughed, feebly curling in on himself.

“Crowley, what _happened_ to you?” Aziraphale crouched to the ground and reached out to touch his partner on the shoulder. Crowley yelped, jerking away from the contact, flickering to life.

“No, nonono, please, please don’t,” said the demon, yellow serpentine eyes reddened and glassy. He weakly attempted to scramble away from the angel’s touch, turning over. His chest was bruised and covered in more shredded skin. His hand gripped his side where there was a particularly nasty bruise, and he was wincing with every labored inhale.

“Crowley, it’s alright, it’s me, Aziraphale,” the angel’s voice was soft and tender. “It’s alright, you’re safe,” he said, not sure if it was more for himself or for the injured demon.

Crowley’s breathing quickened as he allowed Aziraphale’s shaking hand to touch his cheek. He grimaced, a choked keening escaping his parted lips.

“Oh, dear, you’re burning up,” whispered the angel. Blue eyes met unfocused yellow ones for a moment, before darting away, fearful. Aziraphale untangled the demon’s fist from the sheet. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before getting into bed.” Crowley screamed as Aziraphale tried to bring him to his feet.

“Please, no more.” He broke out into a sob. “I can’t _take_ any more.” His voice was gravelly, like someone who had been screaming for hours.

“No one’s going to hurt you, I promise,” Aziraphale tried in vain to comfort his partner. Crowley weakly attempted to push away from Aziraphale as he staggered to his feet, gasping for breath, wet coughs escaping split, bloody lips.

“Need to get home,” he moaned.

“Darling, you _are_ home,” Aziraphale said, gently touching his partner’s bare chest. “You’re home, at your flat. With me,” Aziraphale smiled. He tried to look braver than he felt. Crowley was never one to be afraid. He was usually the scared one, the timid one, the anxious one. To see the seemingly untouchable demon reduced to a state like this was nothing short of terrifying.

They slowly made their way to the small bathroom. It was similar to the rest of the apartment, high concrete walls leading to concrete ceilings. Aziraphale led Crowley, still gasping and flinching at every touch, to the claw foot tub.

“Here, sit down and rest for a minute while I get the water ready,” said Aziraphale, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves. Crowley sunk to the floor, leaning broken skin to the cold concrete wall. He was shivering violently, arms wrapped around his thin frame, long legs curling up to his stomach.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the bath was full of lukewarm water. Crowley’s skin had a sheen of sweat, and from where he let Aziraphale touch him, he could tell he had a high fever. In six thousand years, Aziraphale had learned a little bit about how to keep their corporations healthy, and knew not to put a feverish, already overheating, bloody one into a scalding hot bath.

“W-what are you going to do to me?” Crowley whispered as Aziraphale picked him up off the floor. Another quick miracle would make sure the demon was naked so he could get into the bath. He wouldn’t have allowed Aziraphale to touch him enough to get his pants off, and Aziraphale figured that if— _when—_ he recovered he would be upset about his favorite pants going in the bath. He had always kept his corporation thinner than Aziraphale’s (the angel _did_ have a bit of a fondness for sweets) but he was shockingly light.

“Well, I suppose I’m nursing you back to health, my dear,” remarked Aziraphale. He guided the demon into the warm bath. Crowley gritted his teeth and hissed as the water touched his wounds, eyes squeezing closed, tears escaping. Aziraphale gently wet his companion’s hair, being careful to not get water in his eyes, combing through the mats of blood and sweat. He wet a washcloth in the warm bath water, wiping down the weeping, oozing skin on his chest and back.

“You’re nicer,” said Crowley, through heavy, labored breaths. “Than the other ones.” He laid his head back on the edge of the bath, looking at the angel through eyes blurred with delirium. “What do they want?”

“I-I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, choosing to play along with the delusion.

“I just want to go back, to Earth.” Crowley moaned. “I have… someone, there,”

“Someone special to you?” Aziraphale nervously wiped the blood from Crowley’s face. Where had he been? He looked like he had been through Hell, no doubt, but he didn’t expect him to _actually_ have been there.

“Very special. The special-est,” he half-chuckled, breaking into a fit of hacking coughs, a small amount of fresh blood trickling from his lips.

“Shh, you don’t need to talk anymore,” said the angel. “Let’s get you in your bed.”

He gently pulled Crowley out of the bath, wrapping him in an enormous fluffy black towel that may or may not have been miraculously warmed up. He was still hot to the touch, and delirious, but calmer than when he first woke up. He placed a healing hand on the wounds, red and angry, in hopes of at least drying them and clearing them from infection before another “frivolous” miracle put the shivering demon in cool satin pajamas. He supported his partner, staggering back to the bedroom, wincing and moaning in pain with every step. Crowley was breathing heavily when they sat down on the bed, winded from the short walk. Aziraphale leaned him back gently, fluffing the pillows with care, tucking him in up to his chest in the bed coverings. He stroked the demon’s forehead as his eyes slid shut.

They stayed there for a moment, silent. Aziraphale had brought a cloth, still wet, now cool—and was lovingly touching Crowley’s forehead, cheeks, hair, lips—anything he thought would comfort the one most special to him in the world.

“Angel?” his voice rasped.

“Yes, Crowley, I’m here,” he said, snapping out of his thoughts. Crowley’s eyes were open now, half-lidded and tired but open. He raised a shaking hand to meet Aziraphale’s.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my darling.”

Crowley smiled a small smile.

Aziraphale’s thoughts echoed with his inner voice.

_He would do the same for you._


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale watched Crowley slip in and out of lucidity over the course of the day. He often awoke disoriented, soaked in sweat (Aziraphale had eventually given up on the pajama top, deciding instead to do his best to keep the demon’s wounds clean and dry), sometimes even fearful of the angel he had known for six millennia. Other times he woke up definitively “not himself” but at least recognizing his lifelong companion. Aziraphale desperately tried to keep his partner hydrated, holding him up when he could barely support his own head—sometimes a welcome comfort, other times the demon drank cautiously and fearfully, not sure if he would be punished for refusing. Crowley did not often eat, but Aziraphale found his gaunt cheekbones and visible ribs very concerning. He was only gone for, what, ten days at most? Yet his body had a wealth of injuries, more than could be sustained by any normal human without—well, without _discorporation_. And judging by _who_ Aziraphale suspected had inflicted these… punishments, the likelihood of him quickly obtaining a new corporation from his “head office” was slim.

By the mid-afternoon, Crowley had calmed down enough to allow Aziraphale to inspect his wounds. The slicing cuts on his chest and back implied some sort of whipping, and he suspected a few broken ribs due to the bruise blooming across the demon’s side and how he gripped it, wincing in pain, every time he coughed. The skin on his wrists was rubbed raw, probably from some sort of restraint. The wound on the back of his head was no longer oozing, leaving his hair soft and clean for Aziraphale to run his fingers through, but he did worry about the state of Crowley’s brain after being struck hard enough on the head to cause such an injury. Crowley slept, fitfully, as Aziraphale wiped the wounds clean once again, carefully applying salve and bandages. The infection appeared to be clearing, thanks to Aziraphale’s power of angelic healing, but his fever had not yet broken. Crowley moaned in his sleep, his lips moving without words, face contorting into a pained grimace.

“Crowley, wake up,” whispered Aziraphale. He gently shook his shoulder, wanting to pull his partner from the nightmare, if at all possible.

“Mh, no, stop,” Crowley slurred, so softly it was almost incomprehensible.

“Crowley, it’s alright, wake up,” Aziraphale shook him again, gently. He had panicked the first time Crowley was talking in his sleep, and shook him so hard he woke up and weakly tried to scramble off the bed.

“Can’t, I won’t… no…” the demon’s breathing quickened, eventually letting out a choked sob that became a yelp as he awoke.

“Shh, it’s alright, you’re alright. I’m here.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed. “I was dreaming,”

“That’s right, just a dream,” said Aziraphale, brushing red hair out of the demon’s eyes. His skin was still hot to the touch. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?”

Crowley ignored the question, looking around, dazed. “How’d I get here?”

“I don’t know, dear. I came to check on you and found you. What happened?”

Crowley raised an arm, shaking, to his face, covering his eyes. “I was… in Hell, and they were hurting me. They wanted me to say how I…” he took a shuddering breath. “How I resisted the holy water. Wanted to use it, for themselves,”

“Did you tell them?” the angel’s eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Of course not,” he hissed. “I wanted to…” he trailed off, eyes rolling back, head lolling to one side.

“Stay with me, Crowley,” Aziraphale gently tapped his partner’s cheek. Crowley coughed, feebly grasping at the large bruised area on his side.

“I wanted to protect you,” he said, breathless. His yellow eyes, now clearer, met Aziraphale’s blue ones, wet with tears.

“Oh, darling, _please,_ don’t put yourself in danger like that. Not for me,” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s cheek with his thumb, tears invading his vision. Crowley closed his eyes, silent for a moment, the only noise in the room the ticking of a clock on the nightstand and Crowley’s heavy breathing.

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Will you sit with me?”

Aziraphale blinked, confused. “Crowley, I _am_ sitting with you,”

“No,” Crowley shook his head weakly, patting the other side of the bed. “ _With_ me,”

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, of-of course.” He slid off his shoes, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, climbing up onto the bed, starting to get under the covers.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed. His shaking fingers pulled at the top button on Aziraphale’s shirt. “Please,”

“Oh, _fine,_ ” Aziraphale relented, taking off his dress shirt and the undershirt beneath, revealing pink skin, pure _(except for those pesky stretch marks. Better lay off the dessert, next time you’re at the Ritz,_ said the voice in Aziraphale’s head). Crowley laid his head on the angel’s chest.

“So soft,” he muttered. Aziraphale hummed in response, gently pulling the demon’s hair into a ponytail. He had learned to braid millennia ago, but hadn’t practiced in a few hundred years, since last time Crowley’s hair was this long. Crowley had tried to get him to grow his out _many_ times, but he felt it didn’t suit him like it did Crowley.

 _Crowley can pull off anything,_ said the voice. _You’re a bit of a one trick pony, when it comes to looks._

Crowley wrapped his arm around the angel’s stomach. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled, dry lips touching the bare skin on his partner’s chest.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled as the voice in his head quieted, the demon drifting off to sleep once again.

—

Crowley didn’t wake again until the sun had gone down, when his fever finally broke. Not wanting to disturb his partner’s slumber by getting up, Aziraphale had miracled in a light dinner, and a slice of angel food cake for dessert (much to the chagrin of his inner voice). He had only gotten a _few_ crumbs on Crowley’s face—thankfully he didn’t wake at Aziraphale picking them off and eating them. He had also decided to procure a book—via miracle, of course, thankfully head office were still leaving _him_ alone—and had managed a haphazard french braid on Crowley’s hair. He had actually _dozed off_ a few times _,_ a far cry from the struggle to rest of the night before. It was an awful thought, but he was happy to have his partner accounted for, even wounded.

When Crowley woke up, he had woken Aziraphale, too. A cough, now dry, followed by a raspy, gravelly swear word, and Aziraphale was barely waking up, lips paralyzed by sleep still managing to squeak out “Language.” Crowley only groaned in response. Or was it more of a growl?

“I feel like shit, angel,”

“Crowley, language!” Aziraphale exclaimed, beginning to work a knot in the demon’s shoulder with his knuckles.

“I’m a demon, babe, I’m _supposed_ to swear,” Crowley said, slowly rising from the angel’s chest. There was a small sticky spot of drool on Aziraphale’s stomach that he rubbed away with trembling fingers.

“I think your fever broke. How’s your chest?”

“Bloody knackered,” Crowley looked down at his side, rubbing it gently with his hand. “Hastur got me good with his boot. How long have I been home?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Aziraphale. “I stopped by this morning and found you. Um, there might be a few messages on your answering machine, from me.” (He neglected to mention that about a quarter of them were recordings of himself severely inebriated.)

“I think they intended to leave me alone here hoping I would discorporate,” said Crowley, sitting up now, tenderly touching the bandages on his chest. “I guess they didn’t realize I had a knight in shining armor.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale blushed, pulling his undershirt on.

“Aww,” Crowley whined.

“What?” asked Aziraphale, stopping halfway through, belly button peeking out between the hem of the shirt and the top of the slacks. His eyes darted around the demon with concern, trying to find any new injury that he had missed. “What is it?”

“You only take your shirt off when I’m asleep,” Crowley said, smirking. “Wait, did you braid my hair? Ow,” he reached up to touch the braid and winced in pain, grasping at his side again. He looked over to his partner, now frowning, arms crossed over his chest defiantly. The red color blooming further over his ears, cheeks, and nose betrayed him.

“I leave the _haven_ of my _bookshop_ to come _here_ , and _this_ is how I’m treated, with such _cruel teasing,_ ” said Aziraphale, playfully sliding out of the bed.

“Oh, c’mon, come back,” pleaded Crowley. “Not fair when I’m too weak to come after you, angel.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale remarked. “I suppose you’ll have to get better soon, so you can resume ‘chasing me down.’” He tilted his head, smirking.

“I suppose I will.” Crowley tucked a stray red curl behind his ear.


End file.
